


Hang Me up to Dry

by HurricanesatDawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Rape/Non-con References, References to Cutting, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock, references to drug abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesatDawn/pseuds/HurricanesatDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you dating that Victor guy?”</p>
<p>The pen freezes mid stroke, the letter ‘R’ half formed, but Jim doesn’t look up. He draws his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it. “It’s none of your business who I’m dating,” he says finally, just when Sebastian was starting to believe that the boy hadn’t heard him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you dating that Victor guy?”

The pen freezes mid stroke, the letter ‘R’ half formed, but Jim doesn’t look up. He draws his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it. “It’s none of your business who I’m dating,” he says finally, just when Sebastian was starting to believe that the boy hadn’t heard him.

_“...right.”_ Sebastian sounds strangely apologetic now, his voice softening until it sounds dry and empty. “Just saw you, yanno, about five seconds from straddling him the other day. Figured that...” he trails off, leaving the rest of his sentence up to Jim’s imagination.

“And?” The fingers of his right hand curl up into a fist, and Jim has to force himself to return to his work, the pen pressed too hard against the paper as he finishes what he was writing.

“Got curious, that’s all.” With a laugh, Sebastian tries to shrug it off, and Jim hears the thump of his head hitting his pillow. Presumably, he’s made himself fall back onto the bed. “I guess,” he picks back up, just when Jim had started to think that the conversation was over, “I figured that I wasn’t crossing any lines by asking.”

The soft, sad smile is almost visible in his voice, and Jim frowns. It’s no so much that it’s a line that’s been crossed, as he doesn’t like talking about it. Least of all with Sebastian. They usually don’t bring up his relationships with other people, and he always figured it was just an unspoken agreement.

“We’re best friends,” Sebastian finishes. “I’m sorry.”

Jim doesn’t say anything for a while, just the scritching noise of his pen. When he does speak, his voice comes out tinny and hollow through the speaker. “It’s not like I ask you about every bird you have climbing into your lap.”

He says it softly, without any real aggression, but there’s the reminder there, harsh despite his words, that he doesn’t like Sebastian asking him personal questions.

_“Jesus Christ,”_ Sebastian curses, and Jim hears him throw something, probably a ball of some sort, against the wall. “Like I said,” he says, tone belligerent, "sorry to bug you. _Fuck.”_

The words make Jim’s teeth grit together, and he has to set the pen down before he breaks it, flexing his hands to keep them from staying as fists. “Stop swearing at me,” he says, a low, murmured sound.

“I didn’t swear.”

“‘Jesus Christ’,” Jim quotes, the inflection oddly missing from his voice, “is a curse by just about any definition. Unless you’re expecting to be on the phone with him. In which case, I’m afraid I’ll have to have him call you back. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

“All right, all right!” Sebastian sighs, and Jim can almost see him rubbing the bridge of his nose, an unhappy look flittering across his face. “I’m sorry. Add it to the list of all the things I’m sorry for. I’m sure you’ve got one written down somewhere.”

Rolling his eyes, Jim pushes back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling instead of his textbook. “Stop apologising,” he orders, and he, too, sighs. “You sound like the village idiot.”

“Jim... What’s gotten into you?”

His jaw feels numb from how hard he’s been grinding his teeth together, and he wants to snarl, maybe hang up the phone. But if he were to do that, he probably wouldn’t hear from Sebastian for days. Yeah, that would be at least half his fault, but he’s never denied what a stubborn fool he can be at times. “Absolutely nothing,” he insists, cracking his neck from side to side quickly.

His hand hovers midair over the phone.

“You seem more uptight than usual.”

Fingers curling, he drops the hand.

“And you seem to have a lot more questions than usual.” He mimics Sebastian’s tone perfectly, with just the perfect edge of mocking.

“Fine,” and it’s obvious that it’s not, that Sebastian is thinking about throwing the phone across the room, smashing it against the wall. “Never mind. Go back to your boy toy. Victor, or whatever.” He grumbles, low, but loud enough that the sound is unmistakable.

He sounds like a child whining about a lost toy.

“Wonderful impersonation of a jealous bint,” Jim can’t resist biting back, his teeth feeling sharp along his lips.

“Thank you,” Sebastian mocks, and it makes Jim want to throttle him so bad, more than usual. “I do try.”

“You know what?” Tilting his chair back, he braces his feet along the back of the desk, arms tucking behind his head. “I take it back. I liked you better when you were apologising for every single, miniscule thing.”

“I don’t feel like apologising anymore.”

“On the rag, then?”

It’s an overused quip, but worthwhile just the same, and he refuses to feel embarrassed at the childishness of it.

“Yes, actually,” and Sebastian’s voice actually brightens, as if he’s about to impart some great, delicious secret. The fucker.

“If that’s your way of saying that you’re really a girl...” Jim drawls in response, “with real girl parts and all, then save it. I really don’t want to know what’s hiding underneath your pants.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t hear a sound from the other end of the phone, not even Sebastian’s breathing. But then it passes, and Jim can hear him let out a harsh breath. “No, you twat. I was being sarcastic.”

Rolling his eyes, Jim pushes the chair back into place, moving back with deliberate noise to his books, scratching the pen evenly as he takes down notes. He doesn’t bother to say a word, letting the filled silence speak for itself.

Hardly a minute passes before Sebastian releases an audible growl. “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands, and if he were there, he’d be shaking Jim’s shoulders by now, spitting in the boy’s face. “Because I asked about some guy, now there’s a huge fight, and you won’t talk to me?”

It sends a pang through Jim’s chest, and he regrets it for a moment, letting it all get to him. “Fine,” he whispers, and he knows Sebastian can hear him, even if not perfectly. “All right. I fucked him. Three times. That what you wanted to hear?”

Sebastian sucks in a breath, and it makes Jim’s eyebrows knit together, trying to decipher the way it sounds. There’s something off, something the matter, more so than just too much information tends to bring.

“...I wanted to know if you were with the kid, s’all,” and the worst part is that Sebastian sounds like he might have been crying. Jim might even believe it, if he didn’t know the boy better. “That was it. You seemed cozy. Flirty. Maybe even serious.”

Neither of them speak for a few seconds, and then he finishes. “I always tell you about my serious girlfriends.”

“I wanted something from him.” Jim laughs at the memory, perhaps a little bit harsher than he should, the visits playing through his mind like a three second film. They fade away and he sucks on his lip. “And I got it.” He shrugs, unable to stop the instinctive movement. “End of.”

“Good for you, then.”

He doesn’t say anything more, and Jim begins to wonder if the boy is getting ready to hang up on him.

“I don’t do serious,” he says, filling the uncomfortable silence. “You should know that.”

“It looked like you changed your mind,” Sebastian says in a rush, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “But you didn’t. So...forget it.”

With a single glance at the phone, Jim shrugs, silently slipping away from the desk and out of the room. He’s tired, and he needs a shower, slipping out of his clothes and into the heavy, hot stream of water. It’s refreshing, and he can block out Sebastian’s voice echoing in his mind, even if only a little bit.

He scrubs his hair until his scalp feels as if it’s on fire, not leaving the shower until his skin is glowing red, and he feels like he’s been disinfected. It’s been who knows how long when he wanders back into his bedroom, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, to the sound of Sebastian’s worried voice trying to talk to him.

“Are you mad at me?” the boy asks, and he doesn’t respond, shuffling quietly through a drawer for a shirt.

“Please... If you’re mad, just tell me why, so I can properly  apologise. Jim...”

That gets him, and he raises his voice. “You said you weren’t in the mood to apologise.”

The relief in Sebastian’s tone is audible. “I take it back,” he says quietly, pausing a second or two. “I was being a prick. I’m sorry.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t say anything, pulling out a stack of shirts to find the one he wants.

“C’mon, Jim,” Sebastian practically begs, “please. I hate it when you’re mad at me.” It wrenches at Jim’s heart, and he has to shut his eyes, try and block out the picture of Sebastian’s desperate face.

“I’m not mad,” he murmurs, jerking away from the drawer with the piece he wants.

“Then why were you ignoring me?”

“Wasn’t. Was taking a shower.”

“Bullshit,” Sebastian growls, and there’s a loud noise, something breaking between the boy’s hands. Probably a toy of some sort. “Please. Just be honest with me.”

“I can send you a picture of my wet hair,” Jim taunts, moving over to lift the phone up, “if that would helps.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, quickly snapping the photo of himself, not even bothering to put on the shirt first. He lifts two fingers up against his chest, a snarl on his face, perfectly timed for the photo.

“So you’re not mad at me?”

He hits send.

Sebastian’s breath hitches, and Jim hears a few beeps, and the phone being placed back down. “That doesn’t mean you’re not mad at me.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He pulls the shirt over his head, shaking his hair out when he’s done, and dropping the towel. With bare feet, he pads back over the chest of drawers, picking the first pants and trousers he sees.

“Don’t you take showers when you’re mad?” Sebastian asks, and Jim clicks his teeth together.

“I take showers when I’m dirty,” he simpers, huffing as he tugs on the bottoms. “When I feel the need to clean my body. Isn’t that how such things usually work?” That done, he collapses back into the chair, hand moving immediately to pick up the pen again.

“Oh, whatever,” and Sebastian growls again, making Jim’s head flash with pleasant images associated with that noise. He smirks. “ You’re being too fucking difficult. I’m going to a party, and I’m goin’ ta find a nice cheerleader t’fuck.”

He presses the _‘end call’_ button before Sebastian can say anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

His phone rings again three hours later, and he doesn’t say anything when he answers it. The only noise is Sebastian’s heavy breathing, and he sounds more than a touch drunk. Jim’s stomach curls up into a knot.  
  
“Ready t’tell me why you’re mad?” he asks, and Jim closes his eyes, letting the sound of the boy’s voice wash over him. He can almost imagine that Sebastian is standing behind him, murmuring in his ear.  
  
“How was the cheerleader?” he asks in lieu of a reply.  
  
“Oh, fantastic,” Sebastian intones, “I was able to get two of them at once.”  
  
Jim’s hands clench into fists at his side, and he forces his eyes back open to stare at the squiggly lines of text on the page. They move and dance, and he can’t make them out properly.  
  
“Why are you mad at me?”  
  
“Sounds delightful.”  
  
“Why are you mad at me, Jim?” Sebastian repeats, and Jim has to sigh.  
  
“I’m not mad at you,” he throws back, and he softens a little bit.  
  
“Then what’s with the attitude you’ve got?”  
  
With a sigh, he braces himself on his elbows against the desk, wishing for what must be the tenth time in that night alone that he could see Sebastian’s face right now. It would be so much easier to understand what’s going on in the boy’s head, and he could probably have swept this under the rug by now.  
  
“I’m tired,” he sighs, scrubbing at his face. “Am I not allowed to be?”  
  
“You’re being a child,” Sebastian bites, unnecessarily viciously, and Jim has to suppress a wince at it. He’s not __—_ at least he doesn’t think he is _—__ and it’s rude of Sebastian to say as much. “Jus’ tell me what’s wrong,” the boy continues, “and maybe we can work it out. Move on.”  
  
“Absolutely nothing is the matter.”  
  
He curls his fingers back around the pen, bringing it to the paper. He has to squint to focus enough, but he makes the words cooperate, and he starts copying them down again. “You’re the one being difficult,” he grumbles, his hand moving without hesitation.  
  
“I’m having a hard time believing that we’re just peachy.” If they were in a room together, Jim decides, he would have thrown something at the boy by now. Maybe a lamp.  
  
He doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Clearly, we aren’t!” Sebastian crows, somehow glum sounding at his point being proven for him. “You keep ignoring me, Jim!”  
  
The ink in the pen runs dry and his eyes pull together into a glare, somehow equating it as something that’s Sebastian’s fault.  
  
He chucks it across the room, and it makes a funny thud as it hits the wall.  
  
Sebastian sighs, and Jim hears shuffling, as if the boy is crawling into bed and underneath his blankets. The noise stops before he speaks. “Would telling you that I’m jealous of Victor help anything?” he asks softly, as if unsure if it’s really what he wants to say.  
  
“It’s not like he’s stealing my time from you, ‘Bastian.”  
  
He has to dig around under the desk to find another pen, and even then, the new one doesn’t seem willing to work properly at first. In his shuffle, he doesn’t notice the pause, the way Sebastian seems to brace himself and try to build up his courage to say something.  
  
“...I want you to be flirting with me,” the boy says, and it makes Jim freeze. He can hear the sound of Sebastian licking his lips, clear over the phone, and his heart thumps. “Straddling me,” he continues, gaining just a mite bit of confidence. “Fucking me.”  
  
“Fuck off,” the curse almost catches in Jim’s throat, relatively unused to forming the words; and somehow now he wants nothing more than to launch himself off the nearest high building. “You’re straighter than a brick.”  
  
With an uneasy sounding laugh, Sebastian disagrees with him. “I’m bisexual, actually." He swallows loudly, brushing at his face. "I like you, Jim. And I’ve...” he doesn’t seem to know what words he wants to use, and the sound of rustling fills the speaker, making it impossible to hear anything for a minute.  
  
“I’ve only been with girls because I’ve never gotten that far with a guy,” he finishes once the noise dies away, and Jim is left gnawing on his lip, the pen discarded and forgotten on the desk.  
  
His heart won’t stop beating terrifyingly fast, and he doesn’t know what to say. His mouth has gone dry, and he has to shut his eyes.  
  
“Oh, great,” Sebastian says after he doesn’t respond for what must have been a couple of minutes. “You’re even more mad at me now. Fucking fantastic. I think I’m going to go sulk into my pillow now. Goodnight, Jim.”  
  
He doesn’t hang up, and Jim finds his voice.  
  
“Delete the photo I sent you,” is the only thing that comes out of his throat.  
  
“What,” Sebastian snarls, making Jim flinch. “Afraid I’m gonna wank to it?”  
  
“Yeah,” he can’t stop himself from saying. “I am.”  
  
Instead of furthering Sebastian’s anger, it seems to calm it a bit, and he sighs. “I deleted it after I got it,” he mutters, sounding glum, “don’t worry. You’re fine.”  
  
His face feels warm, and he curls up into himself. “Why?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“A bit.”  
  
“Listen,” there’s a pause, and Sebastian’s lips slick together. “You didn’t want me to have it. I don’t. Why’s it a big deal?”  
  
“Well,” Jim grits his teeth, leaning back. “You said you wanted to fuck me. So why did you delete a photo of me half naked?”  
  
“Because...” he has to swallow, clearing his throat. “Because I don’t want to know what you look like half naked if I can’t have you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
He can almost imagine that Sebastian’s eyes are closed now as well, and that they’re not mad at each other.  
  
After a second, his eyes snap open.  
  
“Did it make you hard?” he purrs, lip curling into a vicious smile. “Is that why you had to go to the party? Because you needed something to fuck? Did you think about me?” he can’t help but ask that, the question pooling around his gut like a stream of lava. “When you fucked them? Did you imagine that it was me you were fucking instead?”  
  
It’s cruel of him. But no one has ever accused him of being anything less.  
  
“No,” Sebastian sighs into the phone, “it didn’t make me hard. I went-” his voice cracks and he has to start over. “I went to make you jealous. To calm myself down. And... And yes. I did think about you. I thought about what it would be like if you were down there instead of Georgia. I thought about-” the sound of the phone being shuffled about interrupts him, but he doesn’t stop talking.  
  
“-I thought pressing you up against the wall, both of us a bit drunk, and kissing you. Dragging you into one of the back rooms, and going down on you. Fuck, I’d probably be shite at it, but at least I would have tried.”  
  
Jim’s mouth opens, but nothing but air comes out from it.  
  
“Wonderful,” Sebastian laughs weakly. “Now you’re even more upset than before. Bye, Jim.”  
  
“You could have asked, you know,” Jim finally says when his voice comes back, and it threatens to shake a bit. He forces it steady, clearing his throat.  
  
“Asked what?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Asked you out on a date? Fuck, Jim, I was too scared. You... You freak me out, more than anyone else ever has. I just- I couldn’t bring myself to do and have you say no.”  
  
“No.” Jim swallows, forcing a smile, for his benefit alone. “Asked me to drop my trousers and bend over. Plenty have,” he shrugs, like they don’t matter, “most of them get it.”  
  
“I’d-” Sebastian’s voice shakes, and Jim distracts himself by picking at the grime underneath his fingernails. “I’d much rather earn it, really. Take you out on a date. Spend the night flirting with you. Kiss you for the first time, and make out with you for a bit. Then fuck. Later. _Maybe._  
  
“But only-” he chuckles nervously, and Jim could swear that he’s putting his entire heart on the line here, just from the way his voice sounds. “Only if you wanted it.”  
  
“I don’t do serious.”  
  
It probably stings. There’s a silence that stretches on for a while, and he thinks about hanging up again.  
  
“Then I guess we wouldn’t work out.” He sounds hollow. Defeated. “I...really like you. And I’d rather take you out than anything else.”  
  
“Too bad,” Jim purrs into the phone. “I would have let you fuck me.”  
  
He almost wonders if Sebastian picks up on it. The fact that he said _‘let’._ It’s unlikely, but it makes him want to curl up into himself, and never talk to the boy again. Talk to anyone again, really.  
  
“Great.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t- I don’t know what you’re doing now, Jim,” Sebastian’s voice is quiet, sounding more broken with every word. “But it’s annoying, and it’s stupid. Please, just stop. You’re better than this.”  
  
“What am I doing?” he trills, dragging his hand up to his face, digging the nails into his jaw. “I’m in bed, naked, talking to you.”  
  
The sound of his heavy breathing drifts through the phone, and Jim can imagine him squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Why are you teasing me?” the boy asks finally. “I’m not- I’m not hard. It takes a lot fucking more than that to get me hard.”  
  
“It’s fun to screw with you.”  
  
“Well, I’m happy,” the boy groans, and it sounds like he’s bashing his head back against something at least relatively hard, “that’s all I am to you. Someone that’s fun to screw with.”  
  
Jim’s teeth grit together again, making his jaw ache, and the urge to punch a hole in the wall stronger than he’s ever felt before.  
  
“Goodnight, Jim.”  
  
“It’s more than anyone else is,” he says in a rush, not knowing what else to say to keep Sebastian on the line. “You’re just ungrateful.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t hang up either, and that’s good enough. Thumbing quickly through one of the folders in his phone, he sends another picture to Sebastian. This one of him that he took for Victor’s older brother, of his fingers wrapped delicately around his fully erect cock.  
  
Sebastian doesn’t say anything, but he knows the boy got it. The other phone beeps, and Sebastian sucks in an unusually loud breath. There’s another couple of beeps, and Jim rolls his eyes. “Feel free to keep that one,” he grins, “have a nice wank over it if you like.”  
  
“I deleted it.”  
  
“Aww,” he clicks his teeth. “Want me to make a video for you instead?”  
  
“No, actually. I don’t.”  
  
Giggling, Jim moves around a bit, sending the next photo in the folder once long enough has passed. To him, it’s not the most flattering photo he’s taken of himself, but people seem to like it quite a lot, going by the reactions.  
  
Going by Sebastian’s, the boy didn’t appreciate being sent a picture of Jim with three fingers knuckle deep in his own arse. He hears the boy curse loudly, and something gets thrown across the room.  
  
“Deleted it,” is all Sebastian says about it.  
  
 _“My. My._ You really are determined, aren’t you.”The anger inside him has been building up for a while, and the need to do something more won’t stop bugging him, curdling at the surface of his mind. “Go back to Georgia, then,” he coos, “you had fun with her, didn’t you? Pretend she’s me again. Fuck her from behind. Shut your eyes and bite her back, pretend it’s my shoulders. Pretend that you’re marking me instead of her.”  
  
“Jim...” he hears the sigh in his name, “I’m fine, thanks.”  
  
“What do you want, then, ‘Bastian?” the nickname is just a taunt now. When he’d first started calling Sebastian by that name, it was a mark of his fondness. Of how much he cared for the boy. It was his way of saying that Sebastian was his. But now, he knows what it must be doing to the boy, reminding him of everything he can’t have from Jim. “Bastian...” he purrs, almost moaning the name, “tell me.”  
  
“...not to be teased like this.”  
  
He pouts.  
  
“You’re treating me like an idiot, Jim.”  
  
“You are an idiot, ‘Bastian,” he must sound like a bloody parrot right now, chirping away through the phone. For a moment, he thinks about retreating to bed, curling up under a blanket as they talk, and maybe falling asleep listening to Sebastian’s voice, complaining in his ear about how Jim treats him.  
  
“Why, thank you.”  
  
He swallows, and it aches. “You’re welcome, darling.”  
  
Sebastian doesn’t say anything, and if he didn’t know for a fact that the boy would almost never hang up on him, he’d think he was about to now. “Why do you want that from me?” he finally asks, picking at the hem of his shirt. It’s fraying, and he needs a new one, needs to just get rid of this ratty old thing. It’s too big, anyway, and wasn’t his in the first place.  
  
“Want what?”  
  
“Dating, flirting, kissing. All that silly little shit that you said you wanted to do with me.”  
  
He hears Sebastian curse softly under his breath, and he smiles.  
  
“Because... Because I actually like you, Jim. I think that...that you deserve to be treated with respect, and- and love. I’m-” he laughs, sounding like he’s making fun of himself for once, “I’m a little old fashioned. When it comes to people I like. I don’t want to just fuck you, because you’re more than that.”  
  
He hears a thump, and he wonders if Sebastian’s stood up, punching his fist into the wall. His chest aches, and he feels like he might throw up; and it doesn’t help that the room has started spinning.  
  
He has to shut his eyes.  
  
“But,” Sebastian finishes, and there’s always a ‘but’ there, “I’m starting to reconsider liking you.”  
  
The growl is audible on the line, echoing through Jim’s room. “You should know by now, more than anyone, that I’m just something to be fucked. There is no more than that.” It doesn’t hurt to say, because it’s the truth, and it makes it a little easier.  
  
“No, no, you’re not,” Sebastian doesn’t hesitate to disagree, his voice almost a plea. “You’re funny, and you’re smart, and I don’t just want to- I want to have long conversations with you, and- and find out how your day has been. I want to take you out for hours at a time and let you wear my jumper when you get cold.”  
  
Jim’s fist clenches.  
  
“You get most of that anyway,” he murmurs, snapping down on any emotion in the words.  
  
“But- no. It’s different. When you’re in a relationship. I want to hold your fucking hand, and just- just kiss you. At random times. Because I feel like it, or you feel like it. Because your lips look soft and you’re smiling at me, or you look sad and I just want to hold you. Just-” he could swear he hears a tear trickle down Sebastian’s cheek. “Forget about it.”  
  
“You know I’d just end up breaking your heart.” There’s a hole in the shirt by now. Not that there weren’t tears already, but they’re bigger now, his nails going right through the clean spots.  
  
“Yeah,” and there’s a pause, a sigh. “You already fucking did. Goodnight,” he says it again. Like he doesn’t want to talk to Jim anymore, like everything’s already gone down the gutter.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“What,” he scoffs, “because I said _‘goodnight’,_ I get a _‘fuck you’?_ That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
He can’t even remember how he got there, but he’s laying on the floor now, staring up at the ceiling. The phone’s been turned off speaker, and he’s talking directly into it.  
  
“You’re not allowed to get your fucking heart broken,” and he sounds more like he’s whining than anything. Complaining because it isn’t good enough. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Too bad. Because it’s already too late.”  
  
Jim curses under his breath.  
  
“It’s... Whatever. I’ll- I’ll find someone else.”  
  
He wants to curl up on his side, wrap his arms around his knees, and just stay that way for a while. Let the world wash away around him. It hurts, and he doesn’t understand why it has to be that way. “Fuck you,” he breathes again.  
  
“I don’t-” he hears shuffling, a door slamming, and then footsteps. “I don’t understand why you’re so- so fucking mad at me, okay. For getting my heart broken. It doesn’t- Why, Jim?”  
  
“You’re not supposed to get hurt.”  
  
“It’s fine.” Sebastian’s voice softens, and he breathes quietly for a few seconds, in and out, the sound peaceful almost, over the phone. “I’m fine, Jim.”  
  
“Liar,” he bites out, chewing on his lip, until he tastes copper.  
  
“So I’m a little upset,” and the boy laughs, almost hysterical sounding. Jim hears a scraping noise. “I’ll be fine. I’m fucking tough, okay?”  
  
“Liar,” he repeats.  
  
“Why don’t you just-” he breaks off, and his hands must be shaking, because Jim hears the phone clatter to the floor, and he winces at the sound. Sebastian doesn’t speak immediately after picking it back up again, sounding like he’s collapsing against something when he does. “Just go back to fingering yourself. And leave me alone. Why do you care so fucking much, anyway?”  
  
Jim rolls his eyes, and then his body, until he’s on his side on the wood floor. It’s cool against his cheek, and he sighs. “Old photo.”  
  
“Ah. _Still,”_ he doesn’t hear anything but breathing, and he pulls a hand to his face, covering his eyes. “Why do you bloody care so much?”

He swallows. He could say any manner of things. He could lie and say that he doesn’t, that Sebastian doesn’t matter to him.  
  
“Because you’re my best friend.”  
  
There’s silence that aches more than anything, and it seems to stretch on forever. “I don’t think we are anymore,” the boy breathes, and Jim’s breath catches in his throat. “I’ll be fine,” he finishes, and neither of them believe it.  
  
“Have a nice night, Jim. I’ll see you around or-”  
  
Jim cuts him off, breathing raggedly. “You were also my only friend.” It’s the truth, and it’s something he’s never said before. Never admitted, even though they both always knew it.  
  
“And I fell for you,” Sebastian deadpans, “making our friendship awkward.” Jim pretends that he can see the boy brushing his fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ear, huffing at himself when it comes loose after a second. “And then you made fun of me. Teased me by sending me...photos of you. And that made it worse.”  
  
A tear slides down Jim’s cheek, and he brushes it away, pretending it was never there. “It would’ve been fine,” he barks out a laugh, “if you’d been happy with just getting to fuck me.”  
  
“Well, I’m not,” but it doesn’t stop Jim from imagining. From letting the images drift into his head, and pretending that Sebastian did just want that, that he wanted to come up behind Jim and just shove him against a wall. Just take him, and then leave.  
  
He shudders.  
  
“You should have been.”  
  
“Too bad, because I’m not.” Sebastian growls the words, and they sting in Jim’s ears, making him blink and swallow hard.  
  
“Why?” and he has to ask, because he needs to know the answer. It hurts, but he has to know, has to be able to change Sebastian’s mind.  
  
“You know why.”  
  
But he doesn’t. He honestly doesn’t.  
  
“I don’t,” he mumbles the first words, chewing on his lips, before he clears his throat and steadies his tone. “I’m not special. I’m not one of your girls. I’m just- just a piece of arse, all right? That’s all I am. That’s all I’ll fucking ever be.”  
  
“No, no, Jim,” Sebastian sounds like he wants to start yelling, and he digs fingers into his thigh, not caring if he breaks the skin and makes himself bleed. It lets him center his head, just a bit, enough to focus on Sebastian’s words. “You’re better than my girls, Jim,” he rasps, and there’s a thump, Sebastian knocking his forehead against something. “You’re smart and you’re- you’re funny. You’re so fucking sarcastic, and silly, and sexy, and Jim... You’re fucking perfect, Jim.”  
  
He stifles a gasp of pain at the way his nails scrape in, and there’s no denying that he’s bleeding, that the nails he keeps sharp for this exact purpose have dug their way through his skin. It doesn’t hurt as much as it could, but his hands are shaking, making it worse. “Fuck you,” he says, for what must be the millionth time by now; and he has to swallow the lump in his throat.  
  
“What the hell?”  
  
Tears sting at his eyes, making it impossible to see clearly, and he can’t understand why it hurts so much. “I hate you,” he gasps out, trying to sound as normal as he possibly can, but still somehow failing.  
  
“I-” he doesn’t let the boy finish, cutting him off before he can speak.  
  
“I fucking hate you,” he growls, refusing to let the words catch in his throat. “You’re disgusting. You’re nothing. You’re less than nothing. You’re fucking dirt, and I fucking hate you.” He has to stop to breathe, pulling the phone away from his ear so Sebastian can’t hear it, the sound of him holding back the tears.  
  
“I-” and Sebastian sounds like he’s crying, too, which doesn’t make sense, but it sends a stab of victory through Jim’s body. “Thanks...” he mutters, the words muffled into something. “For making me feel like shit.”  
  
“You deserve to,” Jim bites out, snarling out each syllable. “You deserve to feel like shit, because only something- only something disgusting and fucking wrong would ever feel that way.”  
  
“Why? because I’m in love with you? I deserve to-” he chokes, breathing heavily a few times before he can continue. “I deserve to feel like shit because I love you?”  
  
“You’re right,” Jim ignores the words, fighting with all his might to stay in control of himself. “We’re done. We never could have made it as friends, and there’s nothing more than that there. We’re- we’re fucking over.”  
  
“So, what?” Sebastian barks viciously, “because I think you’re perfect and love you, you don’t even want to be my fucking friend? I don’t- Jim. I can’t understand your fucking- your fucking logic.”  
  
“You were the one that said it.” He has to sit up, scrub the tears from his eyes, and stare at the window as he breathes. “You were the one that said it,” he repeats, dull sounding.  
  
“I know. Jim, I know. And then I said that you were perfect, and you said that you hated me.” He lets the words hang, loose and desperate.  
  
“I’m not perfect.”  
  
He’s about to open his mouth and say something when Jim continues.  
  
“You of all people should know that.”  
  
There it is again, the _‘you of all people’_ that Jim keeps using, and it makes his head spin.  
  
Sebastian swallows audibly. “What makes you think you’re not perfect?” he asks in a whisper. “Is it because of your cuts? your scars?” Jim doesn’t say anything and he keeps talking. “You’re a fighter, Jim. You’re- those cuts are like battle scars. They’re the things you got through. Proof that you survived. You- the fact that you’re here, that you’re scarred, is proof that you’re strong. That you’re alive, and you’re the strongest fucking person I know.”  
  
Neither of them speak, and the words hang bitterly in the air around them, as Jim stares blindly up at the ceiling. He feels dirty and wrong, and disgusting, and this is wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. His skin itches, and he wants to tear it open, get inside and crawl away so it’ll stop bothering him.  
  
Tears slide silent, but unhindered down his cheeks. “Leave me alone,” he whispers.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“I never want to- want to speak to you again,” he stutters, tripping over the words. “I never want to see you again.”  
  
“Don’t be- don’t be fucking ridiculous, Jim.” But Sebastian sounds cracked, like he’s broken and doesn’t have any fight left in him. “We have classes together,” he argues weakly.  
  
“I’ll transfer out.”  
  
“You don’t have to-”  
  
“Fuck you. Don’t fucking- don’t fucking tell me what to do.”  
  
“What,” Sebastian growls, low and desperate in his ear. He flinches. “You want me to treat you like a piece of shit? Is that what you’d like? For me to be like every other guy you’ve ever met? Would it make you feel better if I was just like them?”  
  
“Yes.” He almost says _‘please’._  
  
“I can’t. I fucking can’t, Jim. You deserve- fuck, you deserve so much fucking better, and I just- I can’t be that guy. Not for you, not for fucking anyone.” He can’t see Sebastian’s face right now, and that’s okay, it’s better that way, he doesn’t have to see those words stinging in the boy’s eyes. “It scares you,” he continues, and Jim can’t breathe again. “It scares you that I think you’re better than that, and I don’t fucking know why. But it does. I’m sorry, Jim. But I fucking can’t.”  
  
Jim clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to find a way to balance the words, to not let them get into his head. Sebastian is just trying to fuck with him, and it’s not okay, and he has to be stronger than this.  
  
“You’re not forgiven,” he mumbles.  
  
“I know-”  
  
“I hate you. I’ll never stop hating you.”  
  
“I kn-”  
  
“The only way... The only way I’d ever be happy with you again is if-” he has to swallow, has to spit out the words. “Is when- if I were to see you dead.”  
  
“Who knows,” and Sebastian laughs again, hysterically. “You might.”  
  
Jim ignores it.  
  
“Then do it,” he begs. “Do it. Kill yourself. Just fucking do it. Go on.” Sebastian doesn’t say anything, and he rolls over, curling up on his side again. “Just fucking kill yourself already. You’re nothing. You- you’re horrible. You deserve to die. You know it, I know it. Everyone fucking knows it.”  
  
“All because...” Sebastian chokes, and Jim knows he’s crying now, that tears are streaming down his face. “Because I wanted to treat you right?”  
  
“Maybe you should hang yourself,” he snarls, “or take a gun to your fucking head. I’m sure you could find one easy enough.” Sebastian still can’t speak, and he takes advantage of the silence. “Pills, too, if you took enough. I know you have them, the good ones. The ones that would do the trick. Or you could be like me!” he grins, teeth clacking together. “Slit your wrists. Maybe take some pills, too. Thin your blood out. That way you’d die faster. That way you could bleed out before anyone went looking for you.  
  
He’s about to open his mouth again, to continue, but the words stick, and Sebastian speaks instead.  
  
“Way ahead of you,” he whispers; and Jim knows his eyes must be closed. He wonders if there’s a blade to his wrist. “Did you know, then?” he laughs, doesn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you knew. You always know. It wasn’t the scars, because I hid those... So did you find blood? or is it that there’s a look in people’s eyes? Is there something that gives us away to each other? Says, _‘I cut, too. I take drugs, and I make myself bleed just to make it okay’?”_  
  
Jim breathes in raggedly, and he can’t speak. He didn’t know, and his heart won’t stop slamming in his chest.  
  
“Do you feel bad now?” Sebastian continues, gaining momentum. “Now that it’s out there, in the open? Now that you can’t deny that I really am a piece of shit? Because I am. Fuck, I am. I’m dirt, I’m worthless. I’m all those things you called me, and so many more. I’ve already called myself them, a thousand times more than you have. And you know what?” he stops, making himself breathe, giving Jim time to try and speak, but there isn’t a single word on his mind.  
  
“You were the only thing... The only thing that helped. You made it- you made it so I didn’t have to think about it. Or believe it. I don’t fucking know what you did.” He sounds like the tears have stopped, but Jim can’t tell, can’t hear them anymore over the sound of the blood in his ears.  
  
“You made it okay. You made it so I didn’t want to- didn’t want to die. You made it so I thought things would be okay. Until- until today.”  
  
 _‘I’m sorry,’_ Jim wants to say, _‘I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, please don’t kill yourself. Please be okay. I need you.’_  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Fuck you, too, Jim,” Sebastian gasps.  
  
 _“I fucking hate you!”_ and his tears have stopped now, too, like there aren’t any more left inside him. “You’re shit! I never liked you! and I never could. Not as a friend. I put up with you because you liked me. But I fucking hated you! You could never be more than that, because you’re completely fucking worthless!”  
  
“I know I am. Fuck, I fucking know, okay, I’ve always known.”  
  
“Then why did you have to fucking tell me?” he demands into the phone, and it’s then that he realises how tightly he’s squeezing it, how much it’s hurting his fingers, and how white they are.  
  
“I don’t-”  
  
“Are you going to do it, ‘Bastian?” the name’s a taunt, again and again, he can’t stop using that name. He can’t stop holding it against Sebastian that they’re so much to each other. “Are you going to kill yourself? are you going to rid the world - rid me of your taint? of your disgusting stench?”  
  
“Don’t- don’t call me _‘’Bastian’._ Only- only friends get to- get to call me that.”  
  
“Are you going to do it, you little piece of shit?” he growls. “Do you have any idea how happy it would make me? do you? because there’s nothing better, you know. Than seeing a piece of shit like you, bled to death in the bottom of a bathtub. It’s the best fucking thing in the world.”  
  
He hears a sound, but he doesn’t know what it is, and he ignores it, taking the silence as invitation to speak. “If I ever meet another person like you, I’ll slit their fucking throat. But you? no, I don’t want to slit your throat. I don’t want to kill you. Because I want you to do it. I want you to be the one that does it, that kills you, because that’s the only way. The only thing that would ever make it okay.  
  
“Are you doing it?” he whispers, and he can’t help it, his voice drops low, seductive, like he wants to coax it out of Sebastian. Like he’s a scared little animal, and all Jim has to do is sweet talk him into the dark.  
  
“Is there a knife to your wrist?” he doesn’t wait for an affirmative. “It feels good, doesn’t it? There’s nothing in the world like it. Nothing better. Not sex, not all the sex in the world. Not needles, not pills.” He pauses, waiting, and there’s still nothing, not a sound over the line.  
  
He shuts his eyes as tightly as he can.  
  
 _“It’s the only way I’d ever stop hating you,”_ he whispers, and it’s the greatest lie he’s ever told.  
  
He presses the _‘end call’_ button.


	3. Chapter 3

He sleeps fitfully. He dreams, in a rush of sound. It crashes over him in waves, like buildings collapsing down and around his head. His dreams seemed to trap him, enthralling him, and still letting him think he could escape. Even if just for a few seconds at a time.  
  
It must have been dozens of times that he would wake, skin layered in a burning hot sweat, and he’d tear off a piece of clothing in every waking moment, until all that was left was his naked body under a thin sheet.  
  
It’s something he can’t escape. The sound, the warmth around him, everything.  
  
Like being in a tiny, closed off room, finding yourself unable first to think, to hear, and then to breathe. Suffocating. Not understanding why, because the why doesn’t matter. The why doesn’t exist.  
  
When he wakes, for the last time, the sun rising quietly through the window, he can’t avoid the shudder that shakes his entire body. His skin is still wet, but it’s cooled, and he’s cold. The sheet isn’t enough, despite how he pulls it around himself, trying to get safe from the air around him.  
  
He doesn’t want to think.  
  
As he rubs at his eyes, an attempt to push the last traces of underwhelming sleep from his face, from his mind, all he knows is that he doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want his mind to be on today. Not any day, really. But today it’s a curse more than it’s ever been a blessing.  
  
He can’t stop thinking.  
  
Images and sounds rush through his mind, and his lips move along, mouthing the words, mouthing the name, just once, before he catches himself. Before he silences himself.  
  
He shuts his eyes.  
  
The world doesn’t go away, and all that comes instead of peace is someone crashing around in the hallway. Still drunk, most likely, and unaware that he’s home.  
  
It takes conscious force to stop himself from dressing in a hooded shirt that doesn’t belong to him, and instead he dresses as plainly as possible. Jeans, boring jeans, and a shirt that means nothing to him, no memories, no feelings attached to it.  
  
He snags a pair of shoes, and slides out the window, his feet hitting the dew covered grass just a meter below.  
  
It’s cold, but he doesn’t mind it so much now, and he walks like that to the edge of the property, the drops of water sticking between his toes, his shoes tucked under his arm.  
  
The neighbour __—_ Mr Brooks  _—__  is by the road, starting his car, and Jim slips up behind him, biting his lip to make himself look as young and innocent as he possibly can.  
  
“Think ‘ah could ‘itch a ride wit’ ya?” he asks, deliberately slurring his accent, and his teeth nibble artfully on his lip.  
  
The man gives him a onceover, slow and thorough, and accepts.  
  
For a price.  
  
He’s willing to pay it, because it means the man will take him as far as he’d like, and though he’s refused to decide where he wants to go yet, an open offer __—_ no matter how limited the length is _—__  can always be appreciated.  
  
The man’s cock tastes like ash, like he wanked one out after a smoke, and Jim tries not to let the taste choke him. He hates cigarettes, hates smoke, but it’s worth it. He sucks like a professional _—_ _and he is, in a way _—__  and doesn’t let the way the hand is in his hair, holding him in place, get to him.  
  
His mouth is too dry for his comfort, and he can’t quite seem to wet it properly, but the man likes it, the way it feels to scrape down Jim’s throat. He groans when he comes, buried as far back into Jim’s throat as he can get, the hand never shaking from its place, until the semen has begun to leak from the corners of his lips, and tears sting at his eyes.  
  
If he had it his way, he’d be able to wash his mouth out after, burn the taste away in whatever way he can, but it’s clearly not on offer, and he has to try and pretend that way his tongue doesn’t feel putrid, hanging heavy in his mouth.  
  
In a way, he’s lucky that the man didn’t have time, and that he didn’t have to bend over something.  
  
But it’s not like it would be the first time, and it’s not like it would hurt him all that much.  
  
At least his mouth wouldn’t have tasted funny that way.  
  
He sleeps in the passenger seat, head tucked into the curve of the window, not even realising how vulnerable he’s made himself until the moment has passed, and they’re in stopped in front of the police station.  
  
The man watches him as he leaves, a lustful look in his eyes, and a crude comment on his tongue, that Jim doesn’t wait around to hear. He’ll walk back home when he’s ready. Or find someone else to drive him.  
  
The pavement feels cold, even through the layer of his shoes, and he regrets, for just a moment, not grabbing that hooded shirt after all.  
  
It’s with a perverse sort of curiousity that he finds himself wandering into the hospital, his feet leading him to the desk. Behind it is the woman that’s worked there for years, and knows him by name, having admitted him time after time in the course of his life.  
  
She smiles at him, like seeing him has brightened her day just a bit, and leans over the counter to talk to him.  
  
He chats with her, flirty, but not obnoxiously so, sneaking a look at the computer when she types in things, and when she excuses herself to the ladies’ room, he creeps his way around and sits down in her chair.  
  
It’s not difficult to figure out how the system works, to find the information on recently admitted patients.  
  
Sure enough. Room 318: S. Moran.  
  
He slips away before she gets back, leaving no evidence that he took the liberty of using her computer.  
  
No one need know.  
  
He steals scrubs, a cap, and a cover for his mouth from one of the supply rooms on his way, slipping into them before he walks back out, perfectly disguised as an intern of sorts.  
  
Anyone who works there wouldn’t be fooled after more than a peripheral glance, but that’s not the point.  
  
The room is ajar, and he peeks through the crack before entering.  
  
There’s something funny about the room. Sebastian is still asleep, his eyebrows knitted up into a distressed frown, and the machines are beeping away at their designated areas.  
  
He knows enough about machines that when he wanders his way over to one of them, he knows what the information moving across the screen means, and he pretends to be messing with it, in case someone comes.  
  
They won’t. But it’s better safe.  
  
The boy looks tired. His already unnaturally pale skin washed out further, and the scratchy hospital blanket covers both of his arms.  
  
It’s not for his own pleasure that he discreetly checks the door, lifting the edges to pull them back.  
  
Sebastian’s right arm is heavily bandaged, and Jim has to stop himself from reaching out to touch it.  
  
He pulls away, satisfied in his findings, and moves back to the door to take his leave.  
  
“Doctor?”  
  
The voice comes whispered, a quiet, shuffling sound from the middle of the room. From the bed; and Jim closes his eyes, steadying his breathing and his shoulders.  
  
“Hm?” he asks without turning around, moving to look as if he still has business in there, that’s keeping him from giving the boy his attention.  
  
“Has anyone...” he has to stop to breathe in, ragged and heavy sounding, and then he picks up, sounding somehow even more weary. “Has anyone come to s-see me?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh,” and for a moment, Jim thinks he’s going to say something more, but he doesn’t hear a sound, and he slowly turns.  
  
Sebastian’s fallen back to sleep.  
  
He doesn’t even know why he came, why he had to see him. Just knowing if he was alive or not should have been enough. Once outside of the hospital, he makes a break for it, feet padding across the ground not caring in what direction he’s running, or for how long.  
  
By the time he stops, he’s tired, head feeling heavy, but there’s an emptier feeling in his chest. The ache is missing, and he thinks it’s going to be all right now.  
  
He goes back home, hitching a ride the same way he got out in the first place, and slips back into his room like he never left.  
  
The textbook is open and he’s hunched over it seconds before his bedroom door opens and his father comes inside.


	4. Chapter 4

The ache in his muscles __—_ in the whole of his body _—__  means that he has to stretch out carefully, the bed the only safe place to be, everything else too hard, too stiff, too uncomfortable to be able to focus.  
  
There is a stiffness in his limbs, a weariness that seems stronger than it should, weighing heavier on him now than it usually does. Most days, it’s hardly enough to make him notice. But he can’t escape it.  
  
Instead, he doesn’t try, because the best choice is to not think about it. To never think about it.  
  
Which is why he goes back to Victor. He walks, because it’s not that far, and it’s easier to not think about his body that way, to pretend that it doesn’t hurt, that it’s not sore, and the kilometers pass before he knows it.  
  
His limp has vanished by the time he goes up the walk, and Victor doesn’t see him coming _—_ _of course he doesn’t _—__  doesn’t see him until he’s crawled into the boy’s lap, nuzzling into his neck. He purrs, and hands get to his waist before Victor’s mouth opens.  
  
“Wha- Moriarty? Didn’t you-” he doesn’t seem to know what he wants to say, and it makes Jim roll his eyes at the stupidity of the boy. “What about- isn’t Moran- he was your friend, wasn’t he? and he’s-” he doesn’t finish, because Jim cuts him off with a harsh smack of their lips together.  
  
The boy thrashes for a few seconds, before he melts into the kiss, and then his hands are pawing at Jim’s arse, tongue digging its way through his mouth. It’s better this way, Jim thinks, and he smirks.  
  
They don’t fuck like that, they go inside first, into the empty house, and Victor drags him into one of the back rooms, bends him over the table.  
  
When the boy finally fucks into him, his fingers clench white on the table, mind falling shut like a mousetrap, and he doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t feel the way Victor’s cock tries to claim him, the way the boy groans above him, like a disgusting animal in heat. He pushes it all away, and it feels like floating.  
  
How long they’re like that, he doesn’t know, and it really doesn’t matter. But finally, Victor’s fingers dig deeper into his hips, leaving marks, and he bites down on Jim’s neck as he comes. It doesn’t hurt, he’s had worse, and he doesn’t care. Nor does he come himself, because this wasn’t the point of that.  
  
Victor pulls out, dripping onto the floor beneath them, panting from exertion, and Jim’s eyes drift shut. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, and the boy disappears, patting him on the arse in gratitude.  
  
He doesn’t come back, and eventually Jim finds it in himself to turn over, to use the kerchief from his pocket to wipe the cooling semen from his arse, pulling his trousers up when he’s done.  
  
The limp is back.  
  
Victor’s brother is outside when he leaves, at Jim hunches over, trying to curl into himself, in a desperate hope to not be seen by the boy. But his luck doesn’t work that way, and a genuinely pleased grin shifts to cover Trevor’s face. He doesn’t seem to notice _—_ _or doesn’t care _—__  how unhappy Jim is to see him, and he walks over anyway, leaning against the post with his arms crossed to block Jim in, make him stop for conversation.  
  
He could get away, but in the long run, it would do nothing for his predicament.  
  
He stays.  
  
“Trevor,” he intones, not meeting the boy’s eyes. Trevor will want something from him. Will offer him something, in exchange for something else. It doesn’t matter what. Trevor always has a deal he’s offering, and most of them are good. Or they seem that way, before the deal is finalised.  
  
“Did you like it, Jim?” the boy asks him, and he can’t avoid the way his eyes are sharp on Jim’s face, searching him for every tiny shred of thought there.  
  
“Yeah, it was great.” He forces a smile, glancing up with fake shyness at Trevor. “Nothing quite like it.” His teeth hurt.  
  
Trevor beams. “It was a present for someone, wasn’t it? For that boy you’re always with, uh, what was his name?”  
  
He wants to glare, but it won’t do any good, so he interrupts the boy instead. “Yeah. It was for him. His birthday.” His heart beats out of tune in his chest, and he can feel the blood rushing around his ears.  
  
“Well, I’m glad he liked it.” Trevor glances around, and then back at Jim again. “Here to see Victor?”  
  
“Just leavin’, actually.”  
  
“Ah. Need a ride back home? I’ve got the truck, and I don’t mind going in that direction.”  
  
He hesitates. On one hand, it hurts to walk now, more than it did before. On the other, he doesn’t like being alone with Trevor.  
  
“Sure,” he swallows, “thanks, Trev’.”  
  
“Yeah, of course, Jim. I’d hate for you to, uh, have to walk home alone.”  
  
The boy puts his arm around Jim’s waist, tugging him close to his side as they walk, making Jim stumble. Trevor doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, and he recovers himself, the hand sliding its way down to his arse.  
  
He could stop him. If he wanted to, that is. He could send Trevor away, blackmail him, hell, he could even kill the boy if he really wanted to get rid of him.  
  
But there’s something that stops him, that stops him every time that reminder pops around him, keeping him in place and subservient as he climbs into the passenger seat.  
  
Trevor doesn’t drive him home.  
  
It’s funny, in a way, how little the boy seems to mind that he’s fucking his little brother’s sloppy leftovers.  
  
He takes Jim’s mouth first, crueler than the neighbour did, doing a better job of holding Jim down, and taking longer to come. Or maybe that’s just that he’s more used to the feeling of Jim’s mouth, and it doesn’t get to him as easily.  
  
Most people come within five minutes, when Jim gets his mouth on them.  
  
Trevor makes it ten before he pulls out. Ten minutes of sloppy fucking, the boy hitting his throat just right to make his mouth as wet as possible. He doesn’t care for it much, but Trevor doesn’t like dryness, so it doesn’t matter either way.  
  
He doesn’t gag, because Trevor doesn’t like it when he gags, but he can’t breathe several times. Held down too long, cock piercing his throat too deep, and it’s impossible to suck in air, even through his nose.  
  
He thinks he’s going to pass out more than twice, and more than twice, Trevor drags his head away just as the black begins to close around the edges of his vision.  
  
His knees feel weak, and he lets himself be moved, dragged onto his hands and knees on the wooden barn floor. Trevor doesn’t prepare him, because Victor already did, and he’s still wet from that, still loose, and for some reason, he bites into the same place as his brother did. Teeth digging deeper, making him bleed instead of just leaving a mark.  
  
Trevor makes him feel it.  
  
Trevor fucks the way he does everything else in life. Quick, to the point, and unforgiving. He holds Jim’s arse up when he can’t do it himself anymore, nails spreading his legs and buttocks are far as they’ll go, finding some perverse pleasure in watching himself move in and out of him.  
  
It must feel good, he thinks, going by the way Trevor comes, thrusting so hard against his prostate that he almost bites through his tongue to keep in the scream.  
  
He does drive him home after that, when the edges of the sky have begun to turn greyer, darkening on the horizon, and he doesn’t remember a second of the drive.  
  
The door opens, and he limps from the seat, along the road, and into the house. He doesn’t see Trevor again after that, doesn’t see anyone. His father isn’t home, and that’s good, that means he’s out at a pub, and probably won’t be back until tomorrow. That means he can take a hot bath, maybe fall asleep in the tub.  
  
It means he can actually study, and fall asleep without fearing of being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of things being thrown, or voices yelling.  
  
He doesn’t make it to the bathroom, only as far as his room, and he’s unconscious before he hits the bed.  
  
It’s better that way.


	5. Chapter 5

The phone wakes him up. A harsh trilling of sound from his pocket, shaking him from his nearly restless sleep.

It doesn’t matter what time it is, or who it is, and he picks it up, forcing the sleeping from his voice as he picks up. _“Hello?”_

“Jim, dear. Oh, my lord, I’m glad I could reach you. It’s-” and it’s his mother. Sebastian’s mother. He sits up, eyes snapping open as he stares at the wall. “-Sebastian. He- I don’t know how to tell you this, but,” her voice quivers, and he bites his lip, “he tried to kill himself. I found him and he was- it doesn’t- it doesn’t matter. He’s alive. He’s okay. I just thought- he didn’t want me to call you. 

“Didn’t want you to worry, no doubt,” and she laughs awkwardly, a painful sounding tremor through her lungs. “But I found your number in his phone. I thought you would- well, I think he’d like to see you. He misses you something terrible.”

His mouth opens and he tries to speak, but no sound comes out, and he can’t feel his heart anymore. Can’t feel his legs, or his chest, or his anything.

“Jim?” comes the tinny voice through the speaker. “Are you-”

“Yeah,” he coughs, clearing his throat, “I’m here. I just-”

“I understand,” she sounds like she’s tearing up. “I couldn’t breathe either when I- and-” she’s wringing her hands now, he just knows it. “Would you like to see him?”

“I’m not sure if that would be-” he cuts himself off, throwing his feet off the bed on instinct. He’s still fully clothed.

He has to hold back the loud cry of pain.

“Please,” and she bites her lip, begging him, “he- he needs you. He’s never said but- Jim, you’re everything to him. I think seeing you would help. It really would.”

“Mrs Moran,” he starts, eyes shut, bracing himself on the edge of the mattress, but she interrupts him.

“Jimmy,” she calls him, and he flinches. No one’s called him Jimmy since his own mother died. “You’re- I know you’re a good boy. I know you. You care about him, too. I’ve seen the way you look at him, when you don’t think anyone’s watching. Please, Jimmy. I- my boy needs you. Don’t let him down.”

Tears sting his eyes, and he sucks in a pained breath. “I-” he tries to say it, tries to say, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s- seeing me would make it worse. I...I did this to him. It’s my fault. Blame me. Don’t ask me to help him.’ Instead, he says, “I’ll try, Mrs Moran. Th-thanks for telling me.”

He hears her sigh, but she doesn’t press the issue. “Thank you, Jimmy. If you change your mind... He’s in room 318. Just tell them your name. You’re on the list. They’ll let you in.” She sounds like she’s about to say something more, and he swallows. “He’s...in a bad way, and I don’t know if- I think he’s scared of losing you, Jim.”

She stops there, and he chokes back the words that want to come. “Thank you,” he says again, and before she can speak more, he hangs up the phone.

The phone drops from his hand, and he drops with it, back onto the bed. His spine is arched uncomfortably, but it’s not too bad. 

It’s his skin. It itches, like there are a thousand tiny little insects, crawling their way underneath the layer of his flesh, chewing on him, scratching their way along muscle and bone indiscriminately. 

He doesn’t scratch himself, fingers scrunched up, two fists pushed up against the sheet on which he’s laying. It feels like he might bite through his lip, and his eyes fight to roll back into his head, his body wanting to thrash. Wanting to scream and cry out, get rid of this, whatever this is.

It won’t go away, no matter how he holds himself back, holds himself in, refusing to let it move him. It grows and grows, until tears are streaming down his face, and he can’t breathe.

Even then, he has to struggle to keep from launching himself at the nearest object, dig whatever sharp things he can get his hands on into his skin, carve every one of those insects out from along his bones. 

It would be so easy. He’s done it before, what must be dozens of times, and it’s not hard. It doesn’t even hurt. It feels good, not like coming home. But coming back to that one person that makes you feel safe, and happy, like nothing can hurt you.

It’s the best and worst feeling in the world, and he needs it right now, no matter how much he knows that he has to resist. That he has to keep himself from giving into the longing.

An hour passed like that, maybe it two. It might have even just been a minute or two, and he finds himself stumbling from the bed, on legs that are willing to carry him, but refuse to do it well. He doesn’t trip, nor does he stumble, but it feels funny, like he’s walking on a cloud.

He finds himself in his father’s room, rummaging through the chest of drawers off to the side. It’s not the smartest thing he’s ever done, nor is it something he’ll end up remembering with any sort of fondness, but he doesn’t care.

There’s a packet of cigarettes in there, the brand doesn’t matter, and a lighter.

His fingers slip as he slips one out, shoving them back the way they were, shutting the door behind him.

It’s not like the man will notice that just one is missing.

If he does, then there’s not much he can do about it, and it’s worth it, because there’s something about it for Jim.

Something about breathing in smoke, something that befuddles the mind, just a bit. Maybe it’s the first time, maybe it’s the second first time, or the tenth, but the smoke has a way of creeping inside your head. 

Maybe it relaxes the body, the mind, soothing it, not enough to send it to sleep, but to convince it that it’s all right _—_  even when it really isn’t _—_  and convince it that it’s okay to close your eyes. It’s okay to let go. To let your muscles loosen.

It’s not the nicotine that gets to Jim’s head, as he brings the cigarette to his lips, one time, ten times, it’s not an addiction, because he doesn’t smoke. On someone else, smoke is abhorrent, disgusting, something that makes him gag, and want to run away, as far and fast as he can. But in the air around his head, in his lungs, for just this once, he wants to curl around it, find an escape.

Choke on it, perhaps, let it drag him down into a desperate, gagging death, where he can’t breathe anymore, can’t cling to life.

He doesn’t hate this feeling, and he’d like to think that this is all there is to life. Laying on a bed, limbs too weary to move, stubbing out ash on his naked abdomen, not caring that it stings, that it burns his skin, just a bit, and that he’ll wear the marks for a while.

He only stole one cigarette, and all it tells him is just how loud his mind had been. That one measly little stick breathing smoke into his lungs could fix it for a time.

The last of it goes out on his chest and he coughs, something he’s been holding in since that first drag he took, and what’s left of the smoke swirls around his head.

At that, he sighs, head pillowed awkwardly by his shoulder, the stub still between fingers, curled up on his chest.

His eyes drift shut.


	6. Chapter 6

It doesn’t go away. When he wakes, the ash is still on his body, the skin still burnt just that tiny bit, the stub in his fingers, and the taste is still in his mouth.  
  
He tries to wash it away, to scrub the smoke from his lips, from his tongue, his teeth, every corner of his mouth, but no matter how hard he fights it, it’s still there when he swallows.  
  
It’s still on his chest, even after he showers, he can still feel the indentations, can still see where he burnt himself, and still smell the ash. It’s in his head, he knows, as he huffs around it, drinking the first thing in the fridge that he can grab, and it burns his throat going down. The sting is unpleasant, and his eyes water, but he forces it to slide through his mouth, mouthful after mouthful, not caring how much he hates it.  
  
Whisky. Disgusting, cheap, and vicious. It warms his belly with a poison, and he feels sick, like he might throw up everything in there.  
  
Which isn’t much. It’s just water, just ash, just the drink, and he hasn’t eaten in days. Hasn’t remembered, hasn’t care, hasn’t noticed once that he was supposed to put things in there. Always an afterthought, always something that Sebastian reminds him to do when he forgets; and without Sebastian he has nothing onto which he can fall back for that.  
  
He empties his stomach into the pot, and the taste is still there, as he wipes at his lips with the back of his hand.  
  
She calls him again, just as he gets up to step away, and he’s falling again. Collapsing around the rim, hunching over it so he can heave. He knows it’s her, it has to be, because no one else would call him. No one else that has his number and would want to use it calls him anymore, so it must be.  
  
It rings and it rings and it rings. He can’t pick it up, even if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, and isn’t willing. He doesn’t want to hear her voice, condemning him, fighting hard to convince him of all the things that he knows he’s not.  
  
Just the thought makes his head spin, and his eyes feel wet, tears tracked down his cheeks as he begs his body to let him finish, to let him throw up again. He can feel it in the back of his throat, building up, screaming at him. It’s poison in his lungs, in his chest, his stomach, drifting up to his mouth.  
  
He can smell it, not just the smoke anymore, but the whisky, on his own breath. It’s all there is, and it makes him gag, choking on his own tongue and saliva.  
  
It feels so good to expel it, nearly choking in his haste to let it out, but it’s what he needs. It’s still there, though, traces of it, lining the edges of his insides, like a frame. He has to get it out, he has to be free of it.  
  
The porcelain feels cool against his forehead, his skin sticky with sweat and tears, the hair plastered to his face; and yet he shivers, uncontrollably, fingers clenching along the sides.  
  
 _“God, please,”_ he whispers desperately. He doesn’t believe in any god, in anything that’s watching over him, because there can’t be, not for someone like him. But if there is a god, he would pray, he would beg to be saved right now. Beg to be freed from his body, because it hurts, and it’s wrong and he just needs to get rid of it. Get rid of everything.  
  
The phone rings again.  
  
He moans, and it won’t come out, no matter how he longs for it, closing his eyes for another whispered prayer. “Please,” and it won’t stop ringing in his ear, and he feels dizzy, like he’s been wrapped in a cloud and is being spun around and around, never being set down.  
  
The tears stream freely, and all he can see is Sebastian’s face now, pale and lifeless, the blood from his veins pooled around the boy’s head.  
  
He retches again, and whatever bile was left spills from his lips, and coming out, it feels like salvation.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He goes back.  
  
It’s not that he’d ever meant to go back. He never made the conscious decision, and he doesn’t even remember how he got there. Until he’s already standing on the step outside the hospital, staring up at the big glass doors.  
  
Hospitals are a horrid place.  
  
He bypasses the reception desk, ignoring the woman as she calls after him. He already knows what floor and what room he’s going to, even if he doesn’t end up going inside _—_  which he probably won’t.  
  
She is no use to him.  
  
His shoes make dull padding noises across the floor as he walks, and he takes the stairs, just to feel it in his body as he goes up, up, up, his skin hot with exertion by the time he gets there.  
  
It’s not like it was that far. It’s that every muscle in his body seems to be pulling together, fighting him, demanding that he stop, and he refuses to listen.  
  
He’s never been the type to listen to the whims of his body.  
  
But he does have to stop at the end, has to lean against the frame of the door, pressing his forehead along the cool wood, and catch his breath. His chest absolutely aches, but it’s the good kind of ache, and he doesn’t mind it all that much. It’s the kind that reminds him that he’s alive.  
  
He has to swallow, gulp in air, pretend that his body and mind aren’t screaming at him to get as far from this place as they possibly can go.  
  
He doesn’t leave, because he’s stronger than that, and because that selfish, masochistic side of him needs this. Needs to hurt like this, and feel this sting, over and over.  
  
Standing in front of Sebastian’s room, he doesn’t feel strong. Not like he usually does, and the reality of it is that he hasn’t felt strong in a long time. He’s just been pretending, finding things that made it easier to pretend.  
  
It’s stupid, but he has to backtrack. Sebastian will still be sleeping, perhaps too drugged up to be aware of anything, but he needs a safeguard; and it comes in the form of the scrubs from before.  
  
They make him look like a different person, or at least enough that he doesn’t shake as he slips through the door.  
  
Sure enough, the boy is sleeping on the bed, a sheet wrapped tightly around his body.  
  
He looks like he’s lost weight.  
  
His eyes are scrunched together in his sleep, his brow knitted, and his fingers are clenched in the sheet.  
  
It makes Jim wonder what he’s dreaming.  
  
If he’s dreaming of Jim.  
  
Sebastian’s hand is cold to the touch, but he presses against the fingers anyway, lightly tracing the bone in his wrist. For a moment, his eyes drift shut, and he lets the room melt away. They’re not in a hospital anymore, not in someone else’s room, and Sebastian isn’t hooked up to machine after machine.  
  
The boy’s pulse feels unsteady, and it’s not because he’s having an unpleasant dream. It’s that Jim’s touch makes his heart skip, even when he’s asleep.  
  
He jerks his hand away, swallowing the lump as he turns to the door.  
  
 _“Wait...”_ and he freezes, his eyes closing again. His hand is on the knob, and it would be incredibly easy to pretend that he hasn’t heard.  
  
 _“Are you-_ Jim?” the boy sounds so broken, so desperate, and it makes Jim’s heartbeat still, his blood running cold.  
  
“Yeah, Sebastian?” he returns in answer, and he doesn’t even know why.  
  
“I’m-”  
  
 _“You’re?”_  
  
“S-sorry.” He almost laughs at that, and the hysterical sound bubbles at his throat.  
  
“Why the fuck are you sorry?” he doesn’t turn, because his feet won’t let him, but he can feel the heat of Sebastian’s gaze on his back, like a laser through his clothing.  
  
“Sorry that I couldn’t-” the boy sighs, unwilling to finish his sentence, and Jim understands anyway.  
  
“Sorry that you weren’t able to do it?” he asks, and his eyes open, so he can stare at the wall outside the room. “Sorry that I’m disappointed?”  
  
“...are you?”  
  
He has to breathe in through his nose, block out the sound of Sebastian’s voice for a few seconds.  
  
“Yeah,” he finally says, the word hollow, _“yeah._ I’m disappointed.”  
  
“Because my mum found me?”  
  
“Because you’re not dead. Because you... You didn’t try hard enough.” He wonders if Sebastian cares anymore. Or if he’s gotten over him. Maybe this has been enough, and the boy has moved on, realised that he was wrong this entire time. He can’t imagine that his words would still have any real effect. “You failed.”  
  
“And that’s why... That’s why you’re disappointed?”  
  
“I thought you could do better than that.” He does laugh now, husky sounding, like this is a real joke. “I thought better of you, I really did. But I guess I was wrong.”  
  
“Jim,” and Sebastian growls, low in his throat, lightly snarling his name. “You _‘thought better of me’_ as in what? you didn’t know I was fucking _fucked up?”_  
  
“As if,” he laughs again. “I knew you were. I always knew.”  
  
“But you didn’t know, did you? that this was... It was my third attempt. Or was it that you could put me here?”  
  
It’s news to him, and he half wonders if they were from before he met the boy. Not enough unexplained absences to account for, and he would have wondered. Would have found out, if Sebastian had disappeared one day. “Three failures,” he paraphrases, ignoring the latter half.  
  
 _“Yes._ I’m a failure, and a fuckup,” and Sebastian doesn’t sound angry. He sounds tired, like he’s been hit by a car, or beaten up, and he doesn’t have the fight left in him. “And a piece of shit. I already fucking know. You really don’t have to keep reminding me.”  
  
He should turn around, walk over to the bed. At least fucking look at Sebastian. Or move his feet, keep walking until he’s out of here, and never he’d never have to see the boy again.  
  
“Everything you tell me,” Sebastian continues, the words sharp, “I’ve told myself before, what could be a hundred fucking times.”  
  
“And maybe once more will be enough to get it through your head...”  
  
Sebastian doesn’t say anything after that, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.  
  
“‘Bastian, I-” the nickname slips out unintentionally this time, and he flinches back at himself, hand rested on the door now, holding it open. He’s not sure what he wants to say, and Sebastian doesn’t fill in the blanks for him, not like he used to do.  
  
“G-goodbye, Jim,” and the boy says it with a finality that Jim can’t deny. Head bowed, he slips back out of the room, and down the hall. He doesn’t look up until he’s halfway down the stairs, collapsing back against a wall, until he ends up sitting half on one of the steps.  
  
The useless mask comes off in his hand and he scrubs at his face, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, ‘Bastian,” he whispers into the air.  
  
He’s just out the door from the hospital when Sebastian’s mother catches up to him. She comes in the way of a hand on his shoulder, turning him so he has to look at her. Her eyes are wide _— and they’re Sebastian’s eyes, the ones he got from her, and they’re beautiful, though he’s never looked at them that way before —_ and she worries her lips before she speaks.  
  
“Jimmy... I overheard your conversation with Seb. And he- I asked him about it.”  
  
He tries to shrug off her hand, but her grip tightens, and he has to go still, knowing how she might react if he overtly tries to get away. “I’m-”  
  
“No, don’t,” she interrupts, and she doesn’t look angry. Just...heartbroken. “I won’t pretend to understand what’s between the two of you. Or why you- why you did that to him. But he- he still thinks you’re a good boy. He still loves you, Jimmy, as much as I don’t agree with it. As much as I want to hate you, it would hurt him more if I did. You-”  
  
He closes his eyes, sucking the air in through his nose. “Mrs Moran,” he mumbles, “I- you don’t have to worry. I won’t be bothering ‘Bastian again. He’s in no danger from me.”  
  
“No, that’s not- that’s not it. Even though,” she’s struggling to understand what she wants to say, and it fills him with the ridiculous need to laugh. “If you hurt him again like that, I will kill you myself.”  
  
Swallowing, he nods once for her. “I won’t touch him, Mrs Moran.”  
  
“No, Jimmy, stop. I want you to- I want you to remember something.” He opens his eyes, though he knows he’ll regret it, licking his lips.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“My Sebastian is not any of the things you’ve said he is. If anyone is, it’s you. You’re the one that broke his heart, you’re the one that- that got him to try and kill himself again. When- when it’d gotten better, after he met you. We thought- well, we thought he was going to be okay. That you’d fixed him. But you didn’t, and you made it worse.” He shudders unconsciously, her eyes just as harsh as her words, and he can feel her fingers digging deeper into his skin.  
  
“You don’t deserve him. Not now, not ever, and if I had it my way, he’d forget you. Or never have met you. You don’t deserve someone who loves you the way Sebastian loves you.”  
  
That he understands, and he laughs softly, ignoring the way it makes her frown. “I know, Ma’am. I agree. Which is why I won’t be around anymore. Please, I should...” he pulls away harder now, and her hand falls, giving him room to dart away with one last, _‘sorry’_ on his lips.  
  
When he looks back, she’s gone.


	7. Chapter 7

The days after that pass in a blur of sound. The sensations around him seem to dull, until he’s hardly conscious of what happens to his body. His days seem to be spent warming more beds than he used to, passing from neighbour to acquaintance, and back. It’s easier and better than staying at the house, though he has to go back sometimes.

When he does, he sneaks in through an unlocked door or a propped open window, curling up under sheets to protect himself from the cold. It’s uneventful at best.

In a lot of ways, this isn’t his home anymore. It never was, not terribly, and without something concrete holding him there, it feels like nothing.

Or maybe that’s just his skin talking. Feeding him the lies about how dull he is. How blackened his soul has become, until he can’t feel anything. 

They’re pretty words, and it’s not so much that he minds. It’s easier to not feel. To close his eyes, and have what little sensations he has left close around him, blocking out everything but his body.

The hands don’t feel like hands, the mouths don’t feel like mouths, and the bodies pressed into and around his don’t feel like they’re human.

It’s the way it should be.

Closing his eyes, and letting it wash around him. That’s the way sex is, and that’s the way it’s best.

He loses track of how many arms wrap their way around his body, tugging him against theirs. Loses the count to how many times he’s fucked loose, day after day, hour after hour. Even just what happens slips away, and he finds that he doesn’t miss it.

He never enjoyed those memories, even when they were from more pleasant times.

Eventually, he starts eating again, when he remembers, or when there’s food in front of him; and it’s enough that his body doesn’t start to fall apart on him. He doesn’t smoke again, because it was just a one time thing, and after that, the smell of smoke became enough to drive him away gagging in revulsion; and he doesn’t drink again.

Not because he can’t, but the idea of putting alcohol needlessly into his body makes his head ache, and the effect itself has been there for days. 

He lives like a zombie, stumbling through life unaware of what’s happening around him, and wholly uncaring.

It isn’t until Sebastian comes back that he starts to wake up. It must have been a month that passed __—_ a month in which he only remembers the occasional snippet _—__  and then he answers the door to see the boy standing on his porch.

He blinks tiredly, and doesn’t really react, his lips and throat gone dry, and his head spins. Sebastian wasn’t ever supposed to come back. He should have left by now. Taken advantage of the boy’s time kept in the ward, and gotten away from here. Gotten away from this place, this town, this country even, so he could never see Sebastian again.

Yet here he is, and there’s no escaping it now.

He lets him in without a word.

“Do you still...” he asks, and it doesn’t need to be finished, because Sebastian will understand what he means. Sebastian always understands what he means.

“Yeah.”

He nods, averting his gaze.

“Jim... I...” and Sebastian comes up behind him, turning him with a hand on his waist, one on his neck, and there are lips against his.

He melts.

Sebastian holds him up, kissing him softly, sweetly, in that way that he’s never been kissed before, that clenches his toes, and leaves him dizzy. Their lips rub together oh so innocently, not pushing further, just simple and chaste, and his hands shake, trying to clasp at the boy’s sides.

_“‘Bastian...”_ he whispers against the boy’s mouth, and Sebastian pulls away, leaving him leaning against the countertop. He takes a step back, and then another, until Jim feels like they were never touching, even as his lips continue to buzz. “I-”

“Don’t. No, I just-” Sebastian stares down at his feets, shoulders curling in on his body. He tugs at his sleeves, fighting to keep his wrists covered. “I just needed to do that. I- I’m sorry.”

Jim’s eyes shut and he breathes.

When he opens them again, Sebastian is gone, like he'd never been there at all.

It was like a dream, and he’s shaken, unsure of whether or not he’d been imagining it. But his head has cleared somewhat, despite the shaking in his legs, which makes it impossible to go after.

By the time he’s able to dart back to the porch, it’s been long enough that if Sebastian was there, he could have passed out of sight.  
  
He curls up on the sofa, fingers pressed to his lips, trying to understand why they’re still tingling. Kisses like that were something he’d never imagined properly existed. When people kiss him, it’s harsh, vicious, trying to claim his mouth and make him submit, and they only last a few seconds at most. They move on, doing the same thing to his neck, his chest, whatever catches their eyes, and they bite him until their lips don’t matter.

His first kiss was like that; and he’d been expecting it like that.

The kiss haunts his dreams when he drops off to sleep, and Sebastian is back. Sebastian presses him into the curve of a wall, and kisses him just like that, except it doesn’t end. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away, and the delicate press of lips together continues, until they’re mouthing at each other, tongues slipping between lips in eager caresses. 

Sebastian kisses him like he loves him, and it makes Jim cry, tears trickling down his cheeks, that the boy’s lips wash away, and his mouth tastes salty after that. But it’s just him, and Sebastian’s hands are in his hair, holding his waist, centering him, and he doesn’t want it to stop. Doesn’t want it to ever stop.

With the boy, he feels warm, like he’s safe, and he doesn’t want that to go away. He’d like to pretend that life is like that for as long as it lasts.

But it doesn’t. He wakes up, and he’s cold and alone again.

 

* * *

 

After that, he doesn’t go back to Victor. Or to Trevor, even. They’re far enough away that he can avoid seeing them, and he doesn’t, deciding that it would be best not to go back to them. They weren’t the worst he’d ever had, but neither were they the best, and there’s no point to go back for thirds when there are other people he can have.

The man isn’t one he knows. He’s from the same town as Jim, and by rights, he should know the man’s name, at least in passing, but he never cared to learn it. Names don’t matter, not to him.

There’s no reason to care anything about the man, apart from the validity of the hundred pounds he presses into Jim’s hand. The way he seems slimy and repulsive in hidden ways doesn’t matter, because Jim is more than happy with tucking the money out of sight, with following the list of things the man wants from him.

The clothes are skin tight, and they feel almost painted onto his body. He lines his eyes with kohl, making them pop. Bedroom eyes, people call them, and with his eyelashes, naturally long and seductive, he knows he must be a sight. His lips he makes red, so they look bruised. _Fucked._

The man wants him to dance, and dance he does. Hips sway from side to side in a manner that he knows is alluring, to a beat that’s only in his head. It feels like a drugged out daze, like he’s tripping on his own exhaust fumes, and he lets that swirl around him. His eyes fall shut, dragging himself into the sensations, feeling the hands on his body, as they strip him one piece at a time.

Lips press their way along his neck, teeth dragging across his collarbone, up his jaw, and it makes him shudder. Fingers curl at his hips, tugging him into place, against a hard cock, and a rough body.

Standing there naked feels natural. Lips wet with saliva that isn’t his, and he waits, swaying without support, until the man decides what he wants from him.

A second after the order, he’s on his knees, nuzzling against the man’s cock. He wants it slow, wants to enjoy it, and he orders Jim to moan as he holds the boy’s head in his hands, keeping him in place. He slowly strips Jim’s throat dry, every thrust deeper than the last, until his eyes feel wet. His cheeks drip with tears, and he knows the paint must be smearing. But it only makes the man moan louder.

Fingers press along his cheeks, tucking into his throat, and he can’t breathe properly. It’s Sebastian, as far as he’s concerned. Sebastian’s cock at the back of his throat. Sebastian’s hands braced along his head. Sebastian’s voice murmuring his his ear about what a good little slut he is.

It’s Sebastian that makes him choke and gag, until he can’t breathe in even a shred of air. It’s Sebastian that slips his cock from Jim’s mouth finally, whispering about coming all over his face.

It’s Sebastian that ties him to the bed, biting at his lips until they bleed, and fucks into him with only the barest preparation.

It feels the way it always does; _good._ As his prostate is brushes once or twice, accidents as his arse is claimed by flesh he can hardly feel. He rocks back down to it, fingers clenching around air, but not fighting the hand that slips up to his throat.

His eyes never open, never spoiling the illusion.

He can’t breathe, and Sebastian’s mouth covers his, stealing and claiming whatever air was left in his lungs. He can’t stop crying, tears flooding his cheeks, and his head feels blackened. The boy bites down on his tongue, sucking on it, demanding that he give in, that he give up.

Every sensation dulls, going dark, and all he can feel is Sebastian all around him, his senses caught up by the boy.

_“You’re mine, mine, mine, you’re mine,”_ Sebastian growls into his ear, _“my_ slut. My _whore._ _My little fucktoy._ You were made to be abused. Made to be torn apart. I could kill you right now and you couldn’t stop me. Wouldn’t even if you could move. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? _little slut.”_

He doesn’t agree. Can’t agree. The tongue that fucks his throat makes it impossible to not choke, his body convulsing, and it’s like being attacked from both ends. 

It’s not that he minds.

It’s that the boy is slimy inside him, and he only shakes as the world blurs. He can’t feel the hand anymore, can’t feel the cock splitting him. All he can hear is Sebastian’s voice, and that makes it okay. That makes it so he doesn’t mind. It’s good this way. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.

He doesn’t remember what happens next.

When he wakes up, it’s to a dark room, to faint, blurred memories of multiple hands tugging him around, of the sound of an engine, of people’s voices.

It makes his head spin, and he tries to roll over.

“Ow.”

He aches all over, and he doesn’t know where he is, what’s happened to him, or why it’s so dark.

_“Hey, hey, shh,”_ and someone’s speaking to him. A voice he knows, but only faintly, and he’s not sure what it means. But there are hands on him. On his chest, dragging along his face, pressing his shoulders gently down.

A cry of pain escapes, and immediately, he’s let go. “Sorry, sorry,” the voice murmurs into his ear. “Just...don’t try and sit up. You’re all right.”

He falls back, letting his body loosen. It’s not what he wants, but he has to give it to this person, or they might hurt him again.

“There, there, that’s better. Now let me see about-” the lights come on, and he blinks back tears at the suddenness. “H-hi, welcome- welcome back.”

Turning his head, he stares.

“Sebastian,” he has to swallow around the name, breathing in painfully through his nose.

It makes as much sense as anything. It’s his turn to be in the hospital, and the room is familiar enough around him. Sebastian is here because his father wouldn’t be, and the boy’s ridiculous sense of duty to him means that he can’t leave things the way they are, and he has to be here to make sure Jim doesn’t wake up alone.

It’s laughable.

If laughing wouldn’t hurt his chest.

“You were-” Sebastian starts to say, and he knows what’s coming. It’s going to be an explanation of what happened. Sebastian probably thinks he was raped. That the man made him do it, and then held him down and hurt him. He thinks that Jim didn’t want this, and that’s probably what the doctors think as well.

“Fucked?” he arches an eyebrow carefully. “Did he almost kill me then?” his throat still feels raw, and he finds himself reaching for something, for water. Without saying anything, Sebastian flinches, moving quickly to grab something from just out of sight. He comes back, and it’s a bottle of water, that he pours into a little cup.

“I don’t-” he cuts himself off, sitting on the edge of the bed to lift the cup to Jim’s mouth. It’s not the way he’d like to do things, but Jim accepts it, drinking, and spilling half of it down the sides of his lips by accident. 

It’s just a hospital gown. It’s not like getting it wet matters.

He coughs, once the water’s gone, and Sebastian goes with it, pulling away until he’s a meter or two from the bed. His throat doesn’t hurt as much now, or at least it’s less dry, and it’s easier to speak now.

“Are you going to blush?” he chuckles, wincing at the way it rasps out, and he has to lift a hand to feel around his neck, pressing against the bruises. They feel interesting. “It’s not the first time, you know.”

“First time?” the boy bites his lip, looking away.

“I’ve been fucked like that before,” he clarifies carelessly. “Hell, I’ve been fucked worse than that before. Where d’ya think I got the scar on my side? Tch.”

It has the intended effect, and Sebastian looks uncomfortable, hands clenching at his sides. Like he wants to run away, the way a frightened rabbit does.

“You don’t have to...” his voice is soft, wary, and Jim can tell that he wants to know more, but it’s fighting his instincts to pretend this isn’t happening. That Jim is innocent and sweet, and that he’s never been fucked like that, never would allow it.

“But I want to.” He closes his eyes, feeling tired. “Why are you here, Sebastian?”

“I, uh, your da was- I wanted to make sure that-”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

There’s a hesitation, audible in the room, and then he can hear Sebastian’s jacket rustle as he nods. “I know.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Again. “I know.”

“What happened to him?” 

“They, uh,” he can tell that Sebastian is gnawing on his lip. “They did a rape kit. To see if- to see if you were- and, uh, he’s being held.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” he smiles, lip tugging tightly as the split threatens to reopen. “Well, aside from soliciting. Paid me for that, fair and square.”

There’s a thump. A fist pushing down on a table.

“...why do you do that to yourself, Jimmy?”

He doesn’t call Sebastian on the nickname, lolling his head to the side, his eyes flitting open. He’s still smiling, still looking amused. _Sebastian looks broken._ “Because it’s fun,” he murmurs, and he could say that he likes it because it reminds him that he’s alive. Or that he likes it because at least he picked it. Or because he wants someone to go too far, and accidentally kill him.

But he doesn’t.

“Fun?” Sebastian spits out, the word sounding vile from his lips. “It’s fun to do that to yourself? to degrade yourself like that? to hurt yourself like that? _Fun?”_

“What can I say,” he purrs back, “I guess I’m just not the boy you thought I was.”

That gets to him, and his anger seems to evaporate. His fingers loosen, falling to his sides, and his face scrunches up. “I- Jim- I didn’t mean-”

“No, I know you meant.” Shrugging it off, Jim flicks his gaze back straight ahead, keeping Sebastian in the corner of his eye. “You were implying that I’m a whore.”

“I- no, Jim. Fuck, I didn’t-”

“First, you decided it had to be rape. Because that was the only way something like that could happen to me. And then? when you realised that I wasn’t denying it and you couldn’t pretend anymore?” he laughs, and it hurts, but it’s worth it. “When you couldn’t pretend anymore, you realised the thing I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”

He closes his eyes, pushing himself awkwardly up, and it’s not easy, but he manages without help, until he’s sitting on the bed, facing Sebastian again. “I’m just a whore, Sebastian,” and the way he says it is soft, accepting, like it’s a fact of the universe, and anyone who says differently is just deluded.

“You’re not a whore, Jim! Fuck- you’re just- you-” he doesn’t know what to say, and he can’t look Jim in the eyes now. It’s cute, and Jim can feel it pounding in his chest. “Shit, Jim,” he’s still not looking, but he moves closer, until he’s at the edge of the bed.

“Jim, I-” he licks his lips, shuffling on the balls of his feet. “I’m sorry. Please, just,” he doesn’t have an end for that, and he pushes it away, lifting his hands to stroke along Jim’s face, cupping his cheeks. “You’re not a whore, Jim.

“You’re a thousand different things, most of which I couldn’t name if you paid me... But a whore isn’t one of them. You’re-” he closes his eyes, and Jim can see his throat bobbing. “You’re beautiful,” his thumb presses along Jim’s nose, making him flinch. “You’re smart, and you’re lovely. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. Not because you’re a good person, but because you’re an- an extraordinary one.”

He opens his eyes, looking pained, and it’s only then that Jim realises how close their faces are. They’re breathing against each other.

“You’re Jim- you’re _my Jim,_ no matter how things are for you, whether or not I’m yours. And my Jim is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

It doesn’t make Jim cry, and he doesn’t try to pull away, to stop being touched by Sebastian. But it still feels funny, and he can’t lean up, so he turns his head instead. “Prove it,” he mumbles, into Sebastian’s fingers. “Prove that I’m not.”

“I-” hands turn his head, until his neck is tilted up, stretching the bruises, but they both ignore that. “Jim...” this time when Sebastian presses their mouths together, he knows that the other boy is real.

But he doesn’t melt. It doesn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t lift his hands to touch Sebastian, or try and curl against him.

He smirks instead, dragging open his lips so he can smooth his tongue along the flat of Sebastian’s lip, teasing him, enticing him to open his own mouth. “C’mon,” he seems to whimper the word, and he knows it’s working by the way Sebastian gasps against his lips. 

The boy’s tongue slips into his mouth, tangling with his own, slippery and soft, and he moans his appreciation for it, dragging Sebastian further, making him step closer. He does, tugging Jim up to him, curling a hand in his hair to pet his head. “Jim,” he groans into his mouth, and it makes Jim laugh.

Sebastian’s tongue works its way through, growing in momentum until he’s practically stripping Jim’s dry again, attacking him from the inside, and it’s just what he’d been waiting to happen. “See?” he asks cruelly, pulling away to pant against the side of Sebastian’s jaw. “Just...a... _whore...”_

“Shit,” and he blinks. When he opens his eyes again, Sebastian is on the other side of the room, bracing himself against a chair. “Shit, shit, _shit,”_ he says again and again, and it makes Jim laugh, flinching as he drops back against his pillows.

“Ow,” he mumbles, only barely loud enough for Sebastian to pick up on the noise. His breathing is still heavy, and his eyes close again, until he can catch up with himself.

“I should- fuck- I should- I should-”

“Go,” Jim finishes for him, and he doesn’t have to look to see the nod.

“I...” but he doesn’t finish what he’s going to say, and the door shuts with a faint noise.


	8. Chapter 8

“...Jim?” the boy’s voice is tentative, shyer sounding than he usually does, and Jim can’t deny the way his fingers tense.

He could have sworn he had only just shut his eyes; and that Sebastian had only left a minute ago. He’s not supposed to come right back.

His eyes flicker open, and he wets his lips, staring at the boy standing to the side of his bed. “Yes? Something you want?” he tries to look like he doesn’t care. The curve of his mouth moving to show scorn, and it reflects in the tension along Sebastian’s shoulders.

“The thing is that- well- I- I got your present and I...” he squeezes his eyes shut, and Jim looks around himself. The light from outside the window has faded, and it makes him wonder if maybe he did fall asleep.

He pretends that’s more important than the reminder.

“What about it?” and he has to ask. He really does, even if he’s not sure the answer will be one he’d like to hear.

“I-” Sebastian swallows, and his shoulders twitch. “I liked it. _No-_ no, that’s wrong. I _loved_ it. It was- _Jim,”_ his eyes open, and it flickers inside him, how much Sebastian is fighting the urge to move closer, to touch him. It makes him uncomfortable, and he can’t decide if it’s something for which to be thankful or not. “It was the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”

“Oh, no need to remind me,” he clicks his teeth. “Everyone knows that you don’t get much. I mean, with your mum...” he lets the sentence hang mid-air, wanting to see what it might incite.

“Fuck you, Jim,” but it’s missing the tell-tale heat. “Don’t- don’t bring my mum into this.”

“She threatened me, you know,” he drops out, conversationally. He picks at the line of his blanket, flicking the thread between fingers. “Said I was disgusting. That I don’t deserve you.” He laughs, building up to it, “and she threatened to kill me if I went near you again.

As intended, the breath catches in Sebastian’s throat. “Mum didn’t-” but he doesn’t finish the thought.

“And I’d say,” he continues, sounding dry and more relaxed than ever before, his eyes sharp on Sebastian’s face. “That she’s just another person to the tally. I mean, really. Now that she thinks I’m horrible... That only leaves you. I wonder... I wonder what that says, if you’re the only one hanging onto that ridiculous notion.”

“Stop it,” Sebastian snaps, “just- fuck it. You-” he growls, turning on his heel, but he doesn’t leave. He paces, shoes sliding across the floor as he moves. “You’re not- Jim, you’re not disgusting.” He doesn’t look up, and Jim watches him.

“Yeah, you fuck up. Yeah, you’re a fucking mess, and you’re more fucked up than even I understand sometimes, but you...” he breathes out through his nose, the sound loud. “You’re fucked up. You’re screwed up. You do things that are fucked up, and maybe even wrong. You hurt people, and- and you’re just such a fucking mess that sometimes I can’t keep up with you. But you’re... _You’re not disgusting.”_

He tilts his head up finally, still pacing, and one of his thumbs slip against his teeth, chewing on the nail. “You probably have more problems than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, or ever will. And you-” he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, “-you can see it. You know that. But it’s not why you’re so fucking determined to hate yourself. To get me to hate you.

“Jim, you- _shit,”_ and he comes to a stop, pressed up against the bed. His hand hovers of Jim’s, and the boy stares at it suspiciously. “You want me to hate you because... Because it would validate you.” It looks like there are tears in his eyes, and Sebastian laughs. “You want me to confirm everything you’ve ever believed about yourself. Everything that everyone has ever told you.

“And you know why? Because you- because you think, and who the fuck knows why, that if you prove them right, then you’re okay.” His hand moves away, and he breathes like he’s been running for hours, slicking his fingers through the layers of his hair. “Maybe- maybe you’re right. Maybe you will be better. Or- or maybe you won’t.”

He looks away again, but only for second, and Jim follows his gaze, until they make eye contact again. He has to swallow, every muscle in his body feeling tense and angry, and somehow on edge.

“Maybe if I proved it, maybe if I gave you what you wanted, it would be the last thing to- to fuck you up. I’m not- Jim, I’m not going to give you that.” He moves closer, and his hand does close over Jim’s this time, their fingers seeming to weave together naturally. “I’m not like them. Because unlike them, I love you...” a finger presses to Jim’s lips, just when he’s about to interrupt. "No, don’t-" his eyes flicker for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

“I don’t love you because I think that you are something you’re not,” he starts softly, and it doesn’t sound rehearsed. It makes Jim swallow, but he doesn’t speak. “I don’t love you because you’re beautiful, or because I think you- that you can do something for me. You’re- fuck, Jim, come on.”

The way he laughs is desperate and crazy sounding, and then there’s pressure against Jim’s forehead. Their faces are almost touching, and he can feel the heat from every exhale tickle across his nose and lips.

“Don’t-” he says, and Jim has to close his eyes, to calm the buzzing, to make his body stop twitching to throw Sebastian off him. “I love you because you bought me a motorbike for my birthday, even though I know you don’t have the money, and you hate the idea of me endangering myself like that. I love you because you frighten me, and you confuse me. You’re not like anyone else, and you know it, but you don’t fucking know why. And neither do I, but that’s okay, because I don’t know what makes me different either.

“We’re going to- we’re going to make it, okay? even if it’s not- _not as-_ even if I’m not your boyfriend, we’ll fucking make it. We’ll get out of here. We’ll build a life for ourselves, and it’ll be- it’ll be fucking amazing. We can be whatever we want to be. Just- Jim, don’t- don’t let you fear ruin it for you.”

“Sebastian-”

“No, no, shh, please. I just-” lips are against his again, feather light. “Just let me love you. Please.”

He breathes in from Sebastian’s lips, moaning softly, “Seb-” his chest heaves, fingers drag  across the palm of his hand. “I don’t-”

“No, don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t lie to me.”

“You want me to say that I love you?” he groans, tongue slipping from his lips to drag across Sebastian’s. The boy’s head turns, and Jim can hear him whimper, their lips slot together more evenly, and their tongues entwine.

“You don’t have to say it, just-” Sebastian’s lips drag away, along the corners of his mouth, and along his cheek. “Don’t say that- that you don’t.”

“Sebastian, I-”

The door opens, and someone coughs. They break apart before Jim can speak, turning to the sight of Jim’s nurse, holding a clipboard and staring judgmentally at them. “You’re the not supposed t’be here, young man,” she steps all the way inside, shooing Sebastian away. “I said you could stay as long as you didn’t bother him and you’re bothering the poor boy. Out. _Now."_

Worrying his lip between his teeth, Sebastian drags himself away, stumbling back from the bed. “I-”

“Get out. You can come back in the morning, if he wants to see you.”

He flees.

Jim closes his eyes, cold now as he collapses back against his pillow. He doesn’t watch Sebastian leave.

**Author's Note:**

> tbc


End file.
